


Dean's 40th Birthday Fluffstravaganza!

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Chair Sex, Dean makes grown-up decisions, Dean's Birthday, Disney foxes, F/M, Future Fic, Het, I JUST WANT EVERYBODY TO BE HAPPY, Impala Makeouts, Kid Fic, M/M, Oral Sex, Sam gets laid in this one, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean, domestic fluff with a capital fluff, famous ghosts of Wisconsin, flashback sexytimes, good old-fashioned birthday blowjob, international same-sex adoption, kitchen makeouts, little girl wardrobe envy, people in my fics sure talk a lot in bed, pie soup is still delicious, sorry it's winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin: Dean turns 40! Everybody's married! Cas and Dean have a little girl with awesome fashion sense! And Sam doesn't realize tapioca pudding's not the same as tapioca starch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter's from Sam's POV; I started to feel bad about having written 30K words of fic without getting him laid _once._ Chapter 2 will be back to our regularly scheduled Destiel.
> 
> Love and thanks to [Jessi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessi/pseuds/Jessi) for beta reading, and for persevering through Sam sex for my sake.

“Sam,” she says, “what did you put in this pie?”

He pauses the wooden spoon in its slow path through the marinara while he answers: “Uh, cranberries, raspberries, sugar. Pie stuff.”

“Right, but what did you use for a thickener? Cornstarch?”

“No, tapioca. I followed the recipe,” he says defensively, moving the spoon again, a gentle figure eight in simmering tomato sauce.

“It’s not setting,” she says, peering around his legs into the oven. “Was there tapioca left? Let me see the package.”

“It’s on the counter, next to the sugar, I think?”

She sighs and sorts through the multiple boxes and bags he’s left in the wake of baking. “Sam,” she groans, “this is tapioca _pudding._ You need regular tapioca _starch_ for pie.”

He shrugs. “They’re the same thing.” 

“They are _not_ the same thing, Sam. It’s not going to set, and your brother gets pie soup for his birthday.”

Sam taps the spoon on the side of the pot, turns the burner down to a simmer. “Jody,” he says, “you’re using your mom voice.”

She laughs. “You love my mom voice,” she says with a smirk.

He crosses the kitchen to put his arms around her from behind, dropping his chin to her shoulder as she arches back into him. “In certain circumstances,” he says against her ear, planting a kiss in her hair.

“Mmm,” she says, reaching around to give his ass a squeeze. “Circumstances where all burners are turned off and we don’t have company due in ten minutes.”

“I can do a lot in ten minutes,” says Sam, sliding one hand beneath the untucked hem of her flannel shirt.

“You can’t do enough,” purrs Jody, twisting in his grasp to lean full-body into him. He can feel her heartbeat quickening through several layers of fabric, and brings his hand up to cup one breast, rolling his thumb idly across the tip until the nipple shivers firm beneath his touch.

She pulls his head down to kiss him—somehow, he think as their mouths move sweet together, it’s always as much of a surprise as the first time. A surprise, and a revelation.

*****

It was during a hunt, of course, a couple of years ago—putting down the Ridgeway Ghost, a shapeshifting phantom that appeared every four decades or so along the same stretch of road outside Dodgeville, Wisconsin. The usual salt-and-burn was complicated by its being two spirits in one, a pair of warlock brothers caught off guard in a bar fight in the 1840s; the hex bags they carried somehow preserved a psychic connection that allowed them to combine, and to transform into a frustrating array of forms: dogs, sheep, even an old woman.

Dean and Cas were overseas at the time, going through the process to bring home Mariel—in Sweden of all places, as the usual countries aren’t so big on adopting to same-sex couples. So Sam called Jody, since she was only a state away from the action, and they’d always been a good team. He liked Jody a lot: she was smart, capable, tough, but not bitter like many female hunters he’d met. She had a wry humor he related to, she didn’t hesitate to boss him around—and yes, she was hot. Not, like, “hot for her age,” like Helen Mirren or something; she was a good-looking woman, even dressed like Dean.

She was leaning over his shoulder as he scrolled through old articles from the _Dodgeville Chronicle,_ her hand on the chair half-resting on his back, when she suddenly huffed out a breath like she was deciding something. And then she turned his face, tucked his hair behind his ears with a little frown, and kissed him.

It was a surprise. Not just that she did it, but that he responded so quickly and so enthusiastically, that this was, apparently, something he’d wanted. Driving his tongue deep into her mouth, he grabbed her by the waist and pushed the chair away from the table to lift her onto his lap; she pulled away to grin at him and slung one leg over his thighs, bearing down so her pelvis was flush with his.

Then she rolled her hips against him, and all possibility of research was forgotten.

They didn’t even make it to the bed, that first time—hell, they didn’t actually take their pants off. Sam can still call it to mind in perfect detail: Jody’s shirt unbuttoned, her bra unhooked and shoved out of the way by his mouth on her breasts. How she met his eyes with total confidence as she undid his fly and coaxed his stiff cock out of his boxers, stroking with a smooth, steady rhythm while she shoved his T-shirt up into his armpits. His fingers found their way into her jeans and panties to circle and press at her clit; she rocked against him, freed a hand to move his touch right where she wanted, letting out a contented sigh when he got there. She came first (Sam was a gentleman, after all), crying out his name, “Winchester” and all; he managed not to call her “Sheriff” as he made a few final thrusts before spilling hot over her fist.

“Next time,” she said, panting in the aftermath, “let’s do this like adults.”

*****

The doorbell rings just as the timer for the pie goes off, and they spring in two directions—Jody to the oven to take out the half-jelled dessert, Sam to the door to welcome their guests: Dean bearing a bottle of whiskey, Cas behind him, with Mariel hoisted on one hip.

“Happy fortieth, Dean,” Sam says, enveloping him in a hug. 

“Thanks, Sammy,” says Dean. “Kinda surprised to see it, to tell you the truth.” 

“I’m glad you made it. Hey, Cas.” Cas nods as Sam greets his niece: “Hey, sweetheart! How’re you doing?”

Mariel hides her face in Cas’s coat. “Say hello to your uncle, Mariel,” he urges. “I’m sorry, Sam, this seems to be the five minutes a day where she pretends to be shy.”

“It’s OK, it’s nice to see her anyway,” he says. “I like your outfit, Mariel!” 

She wears the top half of a Batman costume (with cape), a pink tutu, daisy-printed tights, and red galoshes; her white-blonde hair is in two wonky braids, with a plastic tiara perched on her head. “Yes, she’s been wearing it all week,” says Cas, irritation in his voice as he set her down.

"Cause Daddy said I could wear it as long as I wanted, so I’m gonna wear it _forever,"_ announces Mariel, suddenly bold. Dean coughs guiltily and makes for the kitchen.

Cas frowns at his daughter. “Daddy regrets that decision, believe me,” he says evenly.

Even though she doesn't share DNA with either of her fathers, Mariel somehow resembles both of them—in her intense blue eyes, the few freckles that appear on her nose in summer—especially when she’s scowling defiantly, as she’s doing now. And she's learned both their defiant scowls, and deploys them appropriately, so that Cas right now is facing down a three-year-old female version of himself, and clearly losing. 

It takes all Sam's self-control not to laugh. "Come on, princess," he says instead, extending a hand. "Let's go see your Aunt Jody, I know she's really looking forward to some girl time."

Mariel gives him her tiara, tells him solemnly, "You're the princess now," and runs past him into the house, galoshes slapping on the floor.

"Thank you for taking her tonight," Cas says. "The presence of a toddler makes romantic interludes...difficult."

"Thank you for saying 'romantic interludes' instead of 'sexual congress' like you used to," says Sam.

*****

To be honest, Sam wasn’t surprised at all when Dean and Cas finally started having sex. Although he’d have preferred to find out pretty much any other way than he did: walking into the library to see Cas white-knuckling the edge of the table, head thrown back in what was clearly an orgasm—and then his brother crawling up from underneath, face split with a grin, to kiss the ex-angel on the mouth. Cas was mortified, Dean just smug.

But after Sam imposed some simple ground rules (really just the one) and invested in earplugs, Cas moved his few possessions into Dean's room, and that was just how it was from then on: Dean and Cas, Cas and Dean, standing closer than ever and stupid in love.

Sam _was_ surprised, however, when they came back from a case in Des Moines married. (Thanks to Charlie's binary finagling, they even used their real names on the license—well, Dean did, and Cas used the identity she'd created for him: last name Stark, "after Tony and Ned.") It wasn't that his brother married a dude, but that he married at all, that Dean had changed enough to consider anything in his life permanent. OK, he was also a little miffed he didn’t get to deliver a best-man speech. He tried giving one anyway, after too many celebratory beers, and ended up just slurring what he remembered of the sermon from _Princess Bride_ until they put him to bed.

Then Dodgeville happened, and Sam spent the next several months shuttling the six hours between Lebanon and Sioux Falls until Jody proposed ("Sam, I’d like to make an honest man of you, if you don't mind") and he said yes without even thinking about it. 

And so the impossible came to pass: the Winchester brothers settled down. 

*****

Cas follows Sam into the kitchen; Dean’s poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and is leaning against the counter with a smile on his face, watching his daughter propel a plastic dump trunk loaded with silverware in circles at Jody's feet.

"Your forties aren't so bad, Dean," Jody says as she dumps rotini into a pot of boiling water. "Sometimes you learn that monsters are real and want to kill you, sure, but there'll be good things, too. Like that tall drink of jailbait over there." She winks at Sam over her shoulder.

"Yeah, I don't know why it's messing with my head," says Dean. "I barely noticed turning thirty, cause of the apocalypse, but I really always expected to be"—with a glance at Mariel—“D-E-A-D by now."

"You have been. Several times. It's how we met, if you recall," Cas comments, slipping his arm around Dean's waist. His hand sits easy on his hip, thumb absently tapping at the jut of the bone.

Dean leans into him slightly, raises his glass. "Well, OK, here's to making it to middle age."

Jody reaches out to clink her drink against his. "Bite your tongue, whippersnapper," she laughs. "I'm not old, so you can't be either."

“Daddy is old,” Mariel informs them, “but Papa is _ollllllld,_ like dinosaurs, cause he used to be an angel. He could fly!” She runs her truck into the cupboard under the sink; forks clatter to the floor. 

“Yes, but Papa doesn’t fly anymore because he wants to stay here on Earth with you and Daddy,” Cas says. “Can you pick up those forks, please?”

*****

Dinner is chicken Parmesan, homemade bread, a spinach salad Dean actually eats, to Sam’s evident surprise. “What?” his brother asks through a mouthful of leaves. “If I’m gonna live to fifty, I probably should eat some vegetables.”

Dessert is eaten out of bowls—Sam’s impeccable crust awash in a bath of berries, not quite pie but delicious all the same. “You made this? Impressive, Sammy,” says Dean as he dishes out seconds. “Jody, you’re a good influence. And I’m so da— _dang_ glad you made him cut his hair.”

“Oh Lord, yes,” says Jody, petting Sam’s close-cropped nape. “I’m already robbing the cradle, I couldn’t go out in public with him looking like an overgrown 14-year-old.”

“I’m right here,” Sam says. “And I haven’t been mistaken for 14 since I was, uh, 19.”

While they clear the table, Cas and Dean start throwing each other familiar looks—the locked-eyes longing that’s only gotten more intense over the years—so Sam offers to load the dishwasher while Jody finds a movie to watch with Mariel. They settle on the old Disney _Robin Hood_ —Jody’s favorite when she was a little girl.

Mariel’s riveted immediately, and her dads’ farewells barely register. “Be good for your aunt and uncle,” says Dean, ruffling her hair. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Sam just gets a wave from the hand that’s not already groping Cas’s ass; Cas has both hands under Dean’s shirts, so he just nods to his brother-in-law.

And when he hears the Impala’s doors slam but no roar of engine, Sam’s pretty sure they’ve opted for the backseat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn as promised! Happy 40th, Dean.

Cas is pulling Dean into the back of the Impala when his shoulder blade cracks against Mariel’s carseat. He curses and turns over to fumble with the seatbelt, and Dean crawls halfway on top of him, grinding against his ass. “You are not being helpful,” growls Cas.

“I’m motivating you,” says Dean, burrowing cold hands under Cas’s black peacoat and untucking his shirt. “Eyes on the prize, baby.”

Cas eventually triumphs over the clasp and disentangles the carseat—Dean helps him wrangle it up and over into the passenger seat, and they scramble the rest of the way into the car, slamming the door behind them.

There’s not quite room for either of them to stretch out fully, but heaven knows they’ve done this enough times; they nestle around each other comfortably, Cas spread out beneath Dean, who kisses him like they’ve been apart for weeks. Which is pretty much the only way Dean knows how to kiss Cas: hungry and yearning, like this time he’s finally going to get enough of the taste and feel of his mouth and be sated forever.

And then he kisses him again, and it’s no different.

Cas is murmuring Enochian against Dean’s mouth—endearments and dirty talk are the only words he remembers. The syllables tangle their tongues further as he undoes the zipper of Dean’s winter coat, a shapeless green pseudo-Army parka he keeps swearing he’ll replace. Cas wraps his arms around him under the jacket, clutching him tight, and rolls his pelvis up into the thigh slipped between his legs, moaning at the welcome friction.

Dean slips out of the sleeves of his coat and leaves it draped over them like a blanket, works both his hands between shirt and skin to run his palms over Cas’s torso while he ruts against him, slow but urgent. “Your hands are _freezing,”_ Cas says with a shudder. “Why do you never wear gloves?”

“They’ll warm up,” purrs Dean, mouthing along Cas’s jaw on his way to nip at one earlobe. “Just give ‘em time.”

“We’re in your brother’s driveway, Dean. How much time do we have?”

“Enough. It’s my birthday, they’re not gonna come shoo us away.”

“Unless one of the neighbors calls the police.”

“Cas, stop worrying, it’s fine! Trying to recapture lost youth here.” Dean lifts up slightly, moves his hand to cup Cas’s cock. “You’re not worried enough to not be completely fucking hard for me,” he says into Cas’s ear. “You wanna fuck me here, Cas? Backseat of my car, like the first time?”

Cas arches into his touch, slides his hands down to grab his ass. “Of course I do, Dean. But you’d spend all day tomorrow complaining that your back hurts—and besides, that was summer in Kansas, this is January in South Dakota. I’m not taking any clothes off in this weather, and I’m not fucking you with all my clothes on.”

“So I’ll take some Advil. We’ll turn the heater on. Come on, it’s my birthday.” 

“Sam’s neighbors will definitely call the police if there’s a huge black car _running_ in his driveway, and you are not celebrating your birthday being arrested for public lewdness,” says Cas.

“Oh fuck, say _lewdness_ again.”

“Come back to our nice, warm, already-paid-for hotel room, Dean, and I will say _lewdness_ and _lubricious_ and _lascivious_ and any other synonyms I can think of as much as you want.”

“Goddamn it, I hate being a grownup,” grouses Dean. But he sits up, lets Cas twist out from under him and get in the front (another annoying part of Dean’s belated maturity is that he has to let Cas drive when he’s had three bourbons). He doesn’t exactly sulk the whole way to the hotel, but he’s not exactly chatty either.

*****

It’s still sometimes weird for Dean to be in a nice hotel, one where the towels are clean and the heating is functional and there’s little to no chance of a dead hooker under the mattress. Weird, but undeniably awesome.

Flinging their overnight bag aside, he slams Cas against the wall just inside the entry, kisses him eagerly—Cas gives as good as he gets, sucking Dean’s full lower lip into his mouth, holding his face tight between his hands while he plunges his tongue deep. Dean swiftly sheds his coat, flannel, T-shirt between kisses, and reaches past Cas’s own coat to unbutton his shirt, letting out an annoyed huff when he encounters the thermal beneath. “I hate winter, you’re always too dressed,” he says.

“Let me off the wall and I’ll fix that,” says Cas, somehow still sounding calm, although his eyes are more black than blue now, the color swallowed by pupil. Dean relents, and Cas obligingly shrugs off coat, button-down, pulls the thermal over his head.

“Better,” Dean growls, and attacks him again, hands at his belt and then his fly.

“Dean.” Cas seizes his wrists. “I’m also not going to fuck you two steps into the room. Go lie down.”

Dean pretends to ignore him, leans in for another kiss; Cas tightens his grip and snaps, “Go. Lie. _Down.”_

“Knew I could make you use your angel voice,” laughs Dean. “God, that makes me hot.” He takes Cas’s hand and allows himself to be led to the bed and pushed onto his back. Cas kneels at the foot of the bed to remove Dean’s shoes and socks, then makes short work of the rest of his clothes, stepping back to take in the sight of his husband naked before him, cock jutting stiff over his belly.

“Dean Winchester, you are just as beautiful right now as the first time I saw you,” says Cas reverently. “Beautiful enough to give up Heaven for.”

“You’re just biased, Cas, c’mon,” says Dean, blushing. “I’m getting pudgy. I don’t get enough exercise.”

“By _exercise_ do you mean digging up graves and fistfights? Or drinking and screwing diner waitresses? You’re happier not doing any of those things.” Cas toes off his own shoes and climbs onto the bed, balancing himself over Dean on hands and knees. “And _pudgy_ is an awful word. You’re somewhat softer, yes. But so am I, Dean. Our bodies have both aged—you don’t find me unattractive, do you?”

“Fuck no,” says Dean, looking up at him. He’s still fucking gorgeous, his eyes searing blue as summer sky, his black hair perpetually sex-mussed, its occasional glint of silver like stars in the night sky.

“Then believe me when I say your attractiveness hasn’t changed. I wanted you then, I want you now.”

“Hmm,” says Dean with a smirk. “Talk’s cheap, Cas. Maybe you could show me?”

“I intend to.” Cas bends down to dip his tongue into the hollow of his throat. “And please remember, you can make as much noise as you want.”

“Yeah? You gonna make me be loud?”

“I’m going to make you _scream,”_ says Cas. “It’s your birthday, after all.”

Dean’s trying to say “I’m gonna hold you to that,” but Cas is licking slow up the sensitive side of his neck and he can’t get the words out. Cas sucks and bites, not hard enough to leave marks where anyone could see—but below Dean’s collarbone his teeth find purchase, worry the skin into red that will be black and blue tomorrow. The pain is a low throb under the pleasure, spinning Dean dizzy and gasping; he tangles his hands into Cas’s hair and tugs none too gently.

“That’s it, mark me, make me yours,” Dean pants, and Cas lifts his head to meet his eyes, fixing him with a stare so intense Dean feels like he’ll catch fire at any minute. Cas grasps his left shoulder, calling up the ghost of the first mark he ever left on Dean, dragging him out of Hell; and then he runs that hand down to caress the gold ring on his finger, the outward sign of their linked lives. (Dean has yet to get tired of people’s eyes sneaking a glance, that flicker of disappointment that crosses their faces when they realize he’s taken.)

“You’ve always been mine,” says Cas, fitting his mouth over Dean’s for a lush wet moment. He pulls away suddenly—Dean lets out a little whimper at his absence—and crosses the room to rummage through their bag. “Do you want me to wear a condom?” he asks, bottle of lube in hand.

Dean shakes his head. “I kinda like the mess,” he says. 

“When it’s not your turn to wash the sheets,” says Cas archly. While he’s up, he finishes undressing, so when he crawls back onto Dean it’s skin on skin everywhere, feverishly hot where their cocks brush and glide. Lubing up his palm, Cas takes them both in hand, strokes them together. “Make noise,” he reminds Dean.

Obedient, Dean moans, low but loud. “God, _fuck,_ that’s so good, Cas, you’re so good,” he cries, thrusting faster into Cas’s fist. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Cas stops—Dean whines—and sits up, grinning. “Do you want to say it?” he asks.

Dean laughs as he gets the reference. “All right,” he says, “blow me, Cas.”

Sprawling between Dean’s legs and grasping his hipbones like handles, Cas leans in to nose at his navel, nip at the extra flesh of his belly. Dean nudges his cock against his throat and groans at the vibration of Cas’s laugh as he relents and curls his tongue around the head.

 _“Yes,”_ breathes Dean, and repeats it at growing volume while Cas slides his mouth down the shaft, pausing to lick and suck in ways he’s well aware will drive Dean crazy—learned and refined over the years. Monogamy has its good points, Dean decided long ago, and personalized blowjobs are in the top five.

When Cas pulls off for a moment, Dean’s whimper is involuntary—but he knows what’s in store, and sighs as Cas’s mouth is joined by his slick fingers behind Dean’s balls, rubbing gently at his entrance until he can push one inside. 

Dean’s voice stays on a long, keening note while Cas works him open, broken by cries of almost-words and Cas’s name; he’s trying to move in two directions at once, up into that clever mouth, down onto those skilled fingers. Gulping a breath, he manages to say, “Fuck me, Cas, please, please just fuck me.”

“I’d love to,” says Cas, and surges over him, lining up and pressing inside at a leisurely pace, despite Dean’s pleas of _faster, harder._ “Fuck, Dean,” he gasps when he bottoms out, “fuck, Dean, you feel perfect.”

“Mmm, you too,” murmurs Dean, “but I need _more,_ please, I want to come on your cock.”

“Yeah,” Cas answers, too wrapped up in sensation to be eloquent. He starts to move: slow, small thrusts at first but sliding deeper every time, adjusting his angle until Dean’s shout lets him know he’s hitting his prostate. Then he speeds up, building to a frenzied pace while Dean writhes beneath him—true to his word, Cas is making him scream.

(They’re definitely going to have to avoid the complimentary breakfast in the morning to avoid the glares of the next several rooms over.)

“Come for me, Dean,” says Cas’s baritone in his ear, and Dean helplessly complies, his last yell catching in his throat as Cas bites down on his shoulder and follows in his wake.

Exhausted, they lie together until Cas rolls off of Dean, stroking back the hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. “Happy birthday, beloved,” he says.

“Thank you,” says Dean. “Best birthday since the last one.”


End file.
